


like looking through a fogged mirror

by charlemint



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AUish, Banter, M/M, Married Life, Season/Series 11, Uncles, Winter fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28185636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlemint/pseuds/charlemint
Summary: Everything's pretty much the same, but it's set in winter."It snowed! Wake up, it snowed!""Th'fuck?" Mickey grunts, sleep thick voice cutting into the quiet after the toddler's morning assault on his ears."Gonna guess it snowed," comes a flat, sleep slurred voice behind him, the pair of arms circled around Mickey's middle tightening."Snow day for you then, Kris Kringle?" Mickey asks, his lips turning up in a lazy smirk when the nickname earns him a swat to his hip.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 7
Kudos: 148





	like looking through a fogged mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for three reasons.  
> 1\. I really wanted Mickey to call Ian Kris Kringle.  
> 2\. The canon dialogue is cringey, I wanted to write dialogue that's less (but still pretty) cringey.  
> 3\. Uncles.
> 
> Title from Jamie Sloan's cover of "Kids."

"It snowed! Wake up, it _snowed!_ "

Mickey wakes to the sound of a tiny fist smacking against every door upstairs, the gentle thumps increasing in volume as Franny runs past, dying off into the sound of fumbling feet making their way down the creaky stairs of the Gallagher house. Mickey's eyebrows come alive before the rest of him, lifting and furrowing, until tattooed fingers press into tired eyes.

"Th'fuck?" He grunts, sleep thick voice cutting into the quiet after the toddler's morning assault on his ears. 

"Gonna guess it snowed," comes a flat, sleep slurred voice behind him, the pair of arms circled around Mickey's middle tightening. Mickey drops his hand and turns his head, one eye opening to peer at the burst of ginger hair over his shoulder, Ian's face pressed between Mickey's shoulder blades. The morning light that slices through the open curtains is cutting across Ian's close cropped curls, the bright orange nearly hurting Mickey's half focused eyes. He turns his gaze away, blinks a couple times, letting his head fall back against the caseless pillow beneath it.

"Snow day for you then, Kris Kringle?" Mickey asks, his lips turning up in a lazy smirk when the nickname earns him a swat to his hip. Ian drags his arm out from under Mickey, and then the one curled over his waist, twisting and landing on his back. He rubs at his right arm, a grimace on his mouth, the limb having fallen asleep beneath Mickey's weight. 

"Fuckin' wish," Ian sighs. According to him, if working for Amazon is hell, working for Amazon during the Christmas month was a previously unheard of level of fucking torture. Mickey dodged a bullet as far as he's concerned. 

Mickey lets out a displeased grunt at Ian's response, about to suggest that he just call out. Mickey’s brain quickly catches up with him, though, remembering how well that particular suggestion has gone down the few times he’s said it. Not enjoying the idea of getting into it with his husband this early, over this same tired ass argument, his jaw snaps shut. Instead, Mickey rolls over and watches Ian rub at his face, his husband's wedding band glinting in the same light that had made his head look like it was on fire, the sight stirring a little something low in his belly. 

"Wanna unwrap your package," Mickey flirts, lips pressed to the ball of Ian's shoulder, teeth grazing freckled skin. "Before you go shippin' shit off to all the good little boys and girls." 

"Jesus Mick," Ian wheezes, his expression caught between annoyed and amused, like he does when he finds Mickey funny, but doesn't want to. "That's not even what I do."

Mickey's lips curl, tongue tracing the light, gingery constellations on Ian's skin. He lifts his eyebrows, giving his best _'do I look like I give a fuck?'_ expression when his eyes meet his husband's, the creeping hand inching its way below the sheets hopefully sending the message that Ian should shut up and go along with it. 

Instead, Ian catches Mickey's hand in his own, giving it a little squeeze and releasing it back to Mickey's side of the bed. He sits up, and in an annoying move that is very much Ian Gallagher's brand, throws the blanket's completely off of them both, exposing their bodies to the chilly air of the drafty room. 

"The fuck, Ian?" Mickey huffs, body curling instinctively against the cold. Before he can reach out to grab the blankets back, Ian stretches one leg across Mickey--and Mickey's really tempted to sack tap the little shit as he drags across Mickey's thighs--hops over, taking the blankets with him to the floor. 

"Sorry, Mick. Gotta work," Ian says, not sounding very apologetic. He pulls on a pair of boxers haphazardly folded on top of their dresser, jeans, and a monochrome henley that Mickey is sure was actually his at one point, if the way that it stretches across Ian's broad chest and stomach is any indication. Despite making a slight show of all the huffing he does while he sits up and gathers the blankets back in his lap, Mickey side eyes the almost obscenely tight shirt, Mickey having absolutely no complaints at the way his husband has filled out in the last couple months. Checking out his husband has become second nature to him at this point. He's obviously caught looking when Ian turns a smirk his way, pulling their bedroom door open. 

"Real sorry, man. All the boys and girls aren't going to pick their gifts themselves," he pauses, almost completely out of the room, but not before getting in one last little snark. "Could use a couple more elves, if you're interested."

The door is already closed when Mickey throws up double salutes. 

\--

The Gallagher kitchen is in it's usual chaos, with Franny sandwiched between Sandy and Liam, chanting "Snow day!" over Lip and Debbie talking logistics over snow days and whatever the fuck a _Zoom_ is. When Mickey first moved into the Gallagher house on a more permanent basis, the overwhelming noise in the morning constantly caught him off guard, the noise like dragging steel wool across his skull, instantly putting him in a sour and irritable mood. Now, it feels like business as usual, barely fazing him as he reaches for the half pot of coffee on the counter. 

"Mom! Can I go play outside?" Franny asks around a mouthful of some off brand cereal Ian had brought home. 

"Honey, it's pretty cold out," Debbie sighs, glancing at the window, clearly not wanting to stand out in the snow while her daughter runs around in it. If the draft coming from the window currently curling it's way around Mickey's shoulders is anything to go by, it's definitely cold enough to keep the snow from melting. _Shit, they should really put up some plastic to cover these shitty fucking windows_ , Mickey thinks. 

"The sun's out!" Franny argues, Freddie letting out a sharp little screech, almost as if he agrees, while battling with the spoonful of oatmeal in Tami's hand. 

Debbie snaps a pleading gaze to Sandy, who shrugs and sips her coffee. "Not going out in that shit." 

"Got homework," adds Liam, when the look turns to him. 

"Uh, we should probably head home soon," says Tami, an apologetic grimace on her face. "The guy quoting us on the windows is gonna be at the house in an hour. Right?"

"Yeah," Lip says as he bobs his head, in that sincerely insincere tone he's adopted as a teenager and had never let go of. 

"Rudolph is on tv," comes Ian's voice behind Mickey, reaching behind him to grab his own cup of coffee. It's an attempt to help, while Mickey has planned to sit this one out. 

"I don't want Rudolph, I want to play!" Franny whines into her cereal. She's too good of a kid to give much of an attitude, but she definitely has no trouble expressing her wants and opinions. It's a trait that Mickey has kind of a soft spot for. 

"Maybe later, when everyone isn't uh, busy, and it warms up a little?" Ian tries again. He's been doing this recently, putting himself in a sort of parental role. When Debbie had a short stint in jail, Ian had stepped up and taken a lot of the responsibility where he could, and Mickey knows what Ian's trying to do. While they haven't talked about kids since their wedding day, it's very clearly never left Ian's mind. 

" _The sun is out!_ " Franny says again, fixating on what she believes is a compelling argument. Mickey turns his head towards the window by the sink, peering across the yard, the fresh snow still untouched as the sun reflects off it. Maybe she has a point. 

It’s not like Mickey loves the winter, but he’s learned to deal with it, having spent his entire life in Chicago. He still remembers being young enough to enjoy that first storm, stomping his way across the neighborhood, leaving his footprints behind. Hell, while he could probably count the times on his hand, he also remembers him, his siblings, and all his cousins having fun shoving each other into snow banks and throwing snowballs at each other’s heads. It feels like a distant memory, though arguably Mickey isn’t even that old. He wonders if Sandy remembers when she made Iggy face plant into the icy side of a six foot snow bank, or how Mickey had shoved a handful of snow down the back of Mandy’s jacket, her and Sandy chasing him down three blocks.

He’s not sure how long he’s been staring out the window, but by the time he turns back, Ian is crouched beside Franny, talking in that soft tone reserved for the younger Gallaghers, and Debbie is sitting in Sandy’s lap, talking about something on Debbie’s phone. Tami and Lip have Freddie all cleaned up, putting on his coat after pulling on their own. 

“Will you play with me outside later, uncle Ian?” Franny asks, still looking a little dejected, her bottom lip pouting out. At the question, Ian smiles wryly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know Fran, I get out around dinner and it’ll be dark out,” he admits quietly. While Ian isn’t exactly excited over the idea of being outside in the cold, he hates telling Franny no, feels like he’s letting her down. The toddler’s face scrunches, her pout getting more prominent as she turns away from Ian to face her soggy cereal again, her tiny shoulders sinking while she lets out a little ‘hmph.’ 

And he isn’t sure why he says it, not even realizing he’s even speaking until Ian’s head whips his way. Maybe it’s the look on Franny’s face, or something in him wishing he had more opportunities to play in the snow as a kid. Whatever. It’s probably just to get under Ian’s skin for being a shit this morning.

“Tell you what Franny,” he starts over the lip of his mug. “You finish the rest of your breakfast and I’ll take you out.”

“Oh, uncle Mickey coming in to save the day,” Sandy teases, earning her a raised middle finger. He doesn’t give a shit though, because Franny yelps happily, nearly knocking Ian over as she slides out of her chair, coming around the counter to hug around Mickey’s hips. 

“Will you, uncle Mickey? Really, really?” She asks, nearly vibrating as she jumps against his side. 

“Uh, yeah, kid,” he mumbles sheepishly now that he’s face to face with a very excitable toddler. He knows all eyes are on him now, and he hopes to fuck he isn’t blushing, despite the heat he feels on the back of his neck. “Seriously, go eat the rest of your fuckin’ sugar O’s and go get dressed.” 

She manages to peel herself off his side, and he sends her off with a hand ruffling her ginger hair. Instead of going back to her cereal though, she just shouts “I’m done!” and immediately heads upstairs. 

With the little ball of excitement gone, the energy goes out with her, and suddenly Mickey feels like he’s in a vacuum--

“I thought you were going to drop off your resumes today,” Ian asks, words clipped. 

“Oh boy,” Mickey hears Lip under his breath. Tami’s glancing between Mickey, Ian, and Lip, clearly stuck between hearing all the drama, and needing to get back to the house. She had made the comment once that watching Mickey and Ian sometimes was better than any reality tv show. And while, okay, sometimes Mickey saves his good material for when they have an audience, he’s really tired of this particular back and forth. 

“I got all day man, wouldn’t hurt to let her play for an hour or two before I head out. I got the time,” Mickey shrugs. He watches Ian’s lips as they press thin, crooked chin jutting slightly. Mickey’s finding himself at the end of that look a lot lately, and it’ll always be weirdly endearing, because every time he makes it, Mickey sees that awkward dork with the prominent freckles staring back at him. Even so, Mickey shifts on his feet slightly, though he plays it off while sipping his quickly cooling coffee, waiting for Ian to say something. 

Before he can though, Franny calls for Mickey, high little voice breaking through the tension.

“Uncle Mickey, I can’t find my boots!” She cries from the top of the stairs. 

“Did you check your closet?” Debbie cuts in, eyeing Mickey and Ian from Sandy’s lap. He can’t wait to hear her two cents on their marriage, again, the way she does _every time_ Ian and Mickey have a spat in front of her. 

“Yes!” Franny calls back. 

Seeing the out for what it is, Mickey takes it. He places his coffee on the counter, giving an exaggerated shrug at the room. “Uncle duty calls.”

Ian rolls his eyes as Mickey turns, and he doesn’t run out of the kitchen, but he definitely doesn’t drag his feet either. And if he hears Debbie start in while Lip’s family heads out the door, he figures he lucked out having to deal with the less annoying Gallagher ginger.

\--

“Fuck,” Mickey curses under his breath as he rubs his hands together, the uncovered tips of his fingers icy in his palms. Fingerless gloves aren't the best protection when making snowballs, but it was all he could manage in the short amount of time he had after Franny had found her boots. Ian hadn’t been in the kitchen when they came back down, already having left for work. Mickey felt kind of bad, knowing Ian was annoyed with him, and even so, he rarely left without a goodbye kiss from his husband. Yeah, maybe they were that couple, but he didn’t give a fuck.

His thoughts are interrupted when Franny runs up out of nowhere, pelting a lopsided snowball against Mickey’s chest.

“I got you, uncle Mickey! I got you!” She jumps around, kicking up the fluffy snow around her. She looks like a little pink nightmare, the varying shades of the color covering her from head to toe. _Seriously, what is it with Debbie dressing up her kid in pink all the time?_ She doesn't even like pink. She tells Mickey all the time.

“Sure did, kid. Yanno what that means, though, right?” Mickey’s brows lift to the edge of the beanie covering his head, the hat making him look only half as menacing as he's trying to be. 

Franny takes the bait anyway and stills, eyes wide. “What?” 

Grinning, Mickey leans down to pick up some snow, rounding it in his fists. “Revenge!” He shouts, throwing the snowball at Franny, purposely aiming low as she screeches and runs from him. 

At first, Mickey tried to dig up the toy guns he remembered seeing in the yard before the snow, but quickly gave up the search and left the toys to be found in the spring time as soon as Franny had started pelting snowballs his way. A weird sense of pride washed over Mickey when Franny had initiated the snowball fight, the young girl coming out of her shell as she grew older. And maybe Mickey doesn’t know much in the way of Christmas family traditions, or whatever, but he does know a little something about snow warfare, albeit a lighter version than he would’ve as a kid, since, you know, he was going to war with a five year old. 

Mickey’s triumphant shouts and Franny’s tiny war cries echo in the street. Although they couldn’t have been playing for more than a half hour, Mickey falls back into the snow, winded. Franny follows suit next to him, both collapsing for different reasons. Mickey, most likely because of his heavy smoking habit, and Franny because well, whatever uncle Mickey did, she wasn’t too far behind. While Mickey catches his breath, Franny starts to wiggle beside him, her arms and legs dragging through the snow.

“The hell you doin’?” Mickey asks, wincing at the wheeze in his breath. 

“Makin’ snow angels,” she replies, moving her limbs a couple more times before standing, pointing at the shape she’d made. “Look, it looks like an angel!”

With a hefty grunt, Mickey pulls himself up, staggering to his feet and brushing some of the snow from his jacket. He then turns his attention to the kid shaped dent in the snow, looking more like a demented circle than anything. 

“Huh, guess it does,” he shrugs noncommittally, turning his attention to Franny and brushing some of the snow that’s clinging to her hat and cheek. 

She turns to look up at him when Mickey pulls his hand away, peering up over the hem of her pom-pomed hat. Her cheeks and nose are pink with the cold, though she’s made no indication she even feels the cold, while Mickey is slowly freezing his ass off. “Wanna make a snowman?”

“What, now?" He grunts. "You’re not tired? Or… cold?” Mickey asks tentatively, glancing up at the house. Franny’s face falls slightly at that, shaking her head. Mickey sighs, rubbing a chilly finger against his eyebrow. He glances back at the house, then back at Franny, sighing again and wondering when the hell he got so soft. 

“Alright kid, lets make a fuckin’ snowman.”

\--

The texture of the snow isn’t the best for making snowmen, but they manage, and before long they have three snowmen, one Mickey had helped Franny make, a smaller one that Franny had wanted to do by herself, and another Mickey had done while the toddler made hers. As far as snowmen go, they’re ugly and bumpy as fuck, bits of grass and dirt clinging to some parts when they had dug too deep in the snow. But shit, the kid was happy and Mickey was maybe a little happy too. He grabs a couple branches from a nearby bush, stripping off any clinging leaves, and hands a couple to Franny, adding arms to their mutant looking snow people. Stepping back, Mickey puts his hands on his hips, and he tries not to smirk when Franny does the same, looking at their work.

“Not too bad, huh?” Mickey asks, hands dropping to his pockets and thinking maybe angels do exist when he finds a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. 

“Yea--wait!” Franny suddenly yelps, running back up to the snowmen. 

“Huh?” He asks, lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. 

“They need faces!” Franny points to the bare snow where a face should be. Mickey blinks and scans the backyard. 

What do people usually use for snowmen faces? Coal? Rocks? Mickey inhales, exhaling his cigarette smoke from his nose. “Shit.” He walks to the edge of the fenced yard, bending down and squinting around the smoke that's getting in his eyes, and starts pawing at the edge of the fence. He’s pretty sure he remembers a small pile of rocks from when Carl had briefly terrorized the neighborhood with a slingshot. When his fingertips scrape across a few cold and smooth objects, he quickly lets his cigarette fall from his mouth and into the snow, using both hands to pull up what he hopes is enough rocks to make their faces. He returns and hands them to Franny. “Here. Go nuts kid, put ‘em in your pockets so you can hold them.”

He watches her strategically place each rock into their places, giving all three a wonky little smile and an even funkier stare. “They good now?” Mickey asks. He lights up another cigarette while Franny eyes each snowman. She pulls her hat off her head, wild hair sticking up everywhere, and places it on the head of the smallest snowman.

“Hey, what are you takin’ your hat off for?” Mickey questions, brows furrowed. 

“This one’s me!” Franny says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And Mickey knows that he’s going to have to grab that stupid little hat after she goes to bed tonight, but right now, he’ll let her have that. “And that one’s you,” she points to the snowman next to hers, the one they had worked on together. Mickey raises a brow, eyeing the snowman critically. Plucking the cigarette from his lips, he presses the butt of the half smoked stick between two of the rocks forming the mouth. His lips press together as he nods once. 

“Yeah, looks right.” 

“And this one is um…” She taps her chin in thought, head tilting to the side as if in deep thought, about to make a serious decision. To Mickey, it isn’t much of a decision at all.

“Uncle Ian,” he grunts, nodding to the one he made. Apparently making the right choice, Franny grins and nods, arms up in the air. 

“Uncle Ian!”

A quiet laugh makes it past Mickey’s throat, his breath coming in short, misty puffs.

“Okay, little red, let’s get the hell back in the house. I can’t feel my toes, and--” 

Franny turns to him with that little pout, and Mickey squints at her. Somewhere along the way, the toddler has figured out his kryptonite. Fucking Gallaghers. It’s not gonna work this time, though. Mickey will do a lot for Franny, but he absolutely will not freeze his balls off for her.

“And, I’ll make you hot chocolate," he continues. "Think I saw some packets in the cupboard.” And thank fuck that’s enough as Franny makes a quick break for the stairs, cheering.

\--

Mickey’s eyes open a few hours later to the sound of the front door clicking open, letting in a cold gust of wind as well as his husband. Ian looks fucking beat, and a quick glance at the analog clock on the wall tells Mickey he’s almost an hour late.

“The fuck you been?” Mickey greets, sitting up lengthwise on the couch, watching over the back of it while Ian removes his snow covered boots. 

“Guess there were a couple call outs because of the snow,” Ian huffs, tossing his boots toward the wall with everyone else’s. 

“Jesus, should’ve been one of ‘em.”

“Fuck off, Mickey,” Ian sighs, no real heat to his tone. He rubs his hand over his weary expression, then removes his jacket, tossing it over the back of the overstuffed chair, then planting himself in it. His limbs are everywhere as he sinks into the cushions, legs splayed out in front of him, arms hanging over the sides. His gaze moves to Mickey, glancing over Mickey’s sleep ruffled appearance. “You and Franny have a good time?” 

“Mm, yeah,” Mickey shrugs, pulling himself up further and sitting himself straight, almost mirroring Ian. He sniffs, nose scrunched for a beat. “Showed her how to make a proper snowball, how to aim. She’s a real sharp shooter,” he snorts, his hand rubbing at his bottom lip to hide the proud smirk forming at the corners of his mouth. 

“Cute,” Ian grins, clearly not falling for the act. 

“Nearly froze my fucking balls off, man.”

“Poor you, can’t have that,” Ian rolls his eyes, grin softening. Mickey drops his hand, letting his smirk turn into something a little more suggestive.

“Couldn’t feel ‘em for a while. Wanna help me make sure everything is in working order?”

“Don’t think you want my hands on you, Mick. I just came in from out there.”

Mickey shrugs. “Could warm up real quick.”

“Depends. Did you drop off those resumes today?”

That gives Mickey pause. Shit. He knew he had something to do today, but by the time he had made Franny her hot chocolate, he was tired, and, maybe he’d gotten a little distracted by the best Christmas movie being on tv, Die Hard. 

He can feel Ian’s laser vision boring into the side of his fucking head.

“Ian--” He starts, ready to fess up and throw down, knowing Ian is probably going to be pretty pissed at him. Before he can, though, his saving grace appears in the form of a five year old, carefully coming down the stairs and throwing herself into Ian’s lap. 

“Uncle Ian!” Franny greets, her little arms circling her uncle’s neck. 

“Hey, hey, Fran,” he greets softly, the topic of Mickey’s resume run--or lack thereof--put on the back burner, for now. And, really, Franny puts Mickey’s account of the day to shame as she launches into an epic tale of their snowball warfare, and if uncle Ian knows how to make snow angels, and did he know that some snow is better for making snowmen than other kinds? Ian nods along, glancing up toward Mickey who pretends not to pay attention, grabbing his now luke warm beer from earlier and downing the last half. 

“You guys made snowmen?” Ian asks, looking at Franny and then to Mickey. Mickey shrugs. There’s a fond look on Ian’s face, but he also looks a little sad, like he really hates the fact that he missed out on playing outside with Franny and Mickey. And maybe Mickey hates the annoyed stare he gets when he disappoints Ian, but there’s something about that slightly drawn face that Mickey hates even more. 

“Hey, we gotta show Ian his snowman,” he tells Franny, who immediately jumps off Ian’s lap and heads for the door. “Jacket, Fran!” Mickey calls behind her as he stands from the couch, the creaks of his body making him feel way older than he is. Christ. He turns to Ian, who’s looking at him curiously. 

“My snowman?” He questions, leaning forward in his chair, looking up at Mickey as he comes closer. 

“Yeah,” he says, maybe a little softer than he means to. Whatever. He presses a knee between Ian’s legs, leaning over him and holding himself up against the back of the chair on either side of Ian’s head. He’s close enough to feel Ian’s breath, his curious look turning into one of amusement, probably at the idea of Mickey making something as wholesome as a snowman with his niece. “Franny’s got a hat, mine’s got a cig, yours needs something,” Mickey explains, leaning closer, the tip of his nose brushing his husband’s. “Was gonna add a giant snow dick to it, but I figured Debbie’d have a fit and that’s not a conversation I wanted to have.”

Ian snorts hard, kind of grossly with Mickey so close, but Ian doesn’t let him move away, long arms circling Mickey’s shoulders. “Jesus, Mick,” he snickers, still not closing in that small gap between them. Rolling his eyes, Mickey’s gaze lands on the baby blue scarf around Ian’s neck, which Ian must have forgotten to take off when he came in. He reaches for it, fingers curling in the soft fabric as he pulls Ian forward. “This’ll do,” he murmurs against Ian’s lips, tiring of dicking around and just wanting to kiss his husband. Ian smiles into the kiss and leans into it, hands pushing into Mickey’s close cut dark hair. 

The kiss is short lived though, because Franny’s impatient as she calls from the kitchen. 

“Guys? Uncle Ian! I wanna show you your snowman!” 

And after they pull on their coats and head out to the yard, Ian’s hand slips into Mickey’s, backdoor closing behind them.

\--

Extra scene:

It’s dark out, but they can see fine under the glow of the street lamps. Franny shows Ian their snowmen, and Ian gives up his scarf to wrap it around the neck of his.

“Franny, what are you doing?” Ian asks as he turns around, watching the young girl’s breath blowing white above her when she tilts her head toward the starry sky. 

“I’m smoking!” She grins at Ian, whose gaze immediately shoots to Mickey. Mickey’s paused mid-drag, eyes wide as he stares back at Ian. Ian’s jaw drops, hand whipping out to smack Mickey hard on the arm. 

“Mickey!”

“The fuck!? I didn’t show her that shit!”

“She’s been watching you!”

“You smoke too, asshole!”

Eventually, their argument devolves into a snowball fight, and Debbie has to open the door and shout for all of them to knock it off and come inside for dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> I know time isn't real in canon, but why the hell can't this season be set in the winter?


End file.
